


Sweetbitter

by sapphicstanzas



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Requested fic, Winter Olympics, a narrative fixation on borrowed sweaters french wine and gently supportive partners, content warning for brief mentions of sex, events take place before japanese and russian senior nationals in the 2017-18 season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 05:18:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicstanzas/pseuds/sapphicstanzas
Summary: “It really is awful,” Viktor confessed. “The bacchanale.”(a study in domesticity in a cold Saint Petersburg apartment)





	Sweetbitter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ahumanlady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahumanlady/gifts).



_The nonlover is unlikely ever to find himself staring down in desperation at a lump of melting ice._

( _Eros the Bittersweet,_ Anne Carson)

i.

The shrill chirp of Viktor’s alarm woke him, and yet it failed to motivate him enough to turn it off. It was five-thirty in the morning. Japanese nationals were in two weeks. Hazy with sleep--and perhaps something also heavier than that--he couldn't very much bring himself to care about the latter at the moment.

Arms snaked across his bare chest, fingers tapping something drowsily over his heart, and into his shoulder Katsuki Yuuri murmured, “Time to get up.”

“Mm,” Viktor disagreed. He felt Yuuri’s lips brush the top his spine, curve into a gentle smile.

“Yes,” he insisted softly, and then he was slipping away, the soft contact between them as well as the warmth of his body gone as he pushed away the duvet and stood. Makka leapt off the bed to follow him to the kitchen, and the opposite side of the mattress quickly turned cold without the two of them to warm it.

Viktor’s alarm persisted. Perhaps Yuuri thought it would motivate him to get out of bed, and that leaving it to its shrill devices would be beneficial, in the long run of things.  It was not. It merely made his head hurt. Viktor covered his face with a splayed hand.

After several minutes, Yuuri padded back into the room. He brought with him the faint scent of mint toothpaste and the slightly sharper cut of Viktor’s shaving cream, and in his hands he was peeling an orange. Viktor watched through fractionally-open eyes as Yuuri reached over and shut off his alarm, and then felt the shifting give of the mattress as he sat on the edge.

“It's time to get up,” Yuuri repeated, quietly, and Viktor made a soft noise of refusal in his throat. He didn't feel like getting up. Every part of him was heavy, suddenly, and shivering. His back, the length of his torso against which Yuuri had slept pressed tightly had long since gone cold. “Viktor.”

A memory of what that warmth had felt like, when Yuuri folded his hand against Viktor’s cheek. More than a memory, when he traced a line with his fingers from Viktor’s cheek to his temple and then softly began to stroke his hair. “Love,” he said, in that gentle way he did when the things he said were wont to embarrass him. Viktor knew even with his eyes closed that Yuuri’s cheeks would be pink, his mouth uncertain, and he would have kissed him for it had he the energy. He did not. “You’re warm. How are you feeling?”

“Mm. Cold.”

“Stay home,” Yuuri said automatically, and the surety in the statement made Viktor open his eyes. Protest.

 “But--”

“Viktor.” He cupped his face, then leaned forward and kissed his nose. His cheeks. His fluttering eyelids. “Stay home. You want to.”

He did, truly. But duty, and perhaps shame, made him fight it. 

“I can’t. Your nationals are weeks away--”

“And I’ll be fine,” Yuuri assured him. He was still stroking Viktor’s hair, and the hypnotic rhythm lulled him into somewhere halfway between waking and sleep. “If I need coaching, I’ll speak to Yakov.”

Drowsily, Viktor frowned. “But…” Yuuri’s thumb worried at his temple slowly.

“Russian nats are weeks away too,” Yuuri reminded him in a gentle murmur. “I’ll be very disappointed if you make yourself sick through your own nationals for my sake, Viktor.”

“M’fine.” He meant to scold, but the insistence left him in a whisper, which didn't make him sound fine at all. Yuuri brushed his lips to his forehead and kept them there.

“Maybe so,” he hummed. “But a little extra sleep couldn't hurt.”

“Mm.” Viktor closed his eyes.

“I’ll be back by the afternoon.” Yuuri patted the mattress to encourage Makka to jump onto it and curl up against Viktor’s spine, which the dog did. It was a different presence than Yuuri’s, undoubtedly, but comforting all the same. “Keep him warm, Makka.” To Viktor, as he edged his thumb over his cheekbone, he said, “Sleep. No work today, and that's an order.”

“I love you,” Viktor mumbled against Yuuri’s wrist, and it was true. Yuuri laughed quietly, and because Viktor knew him well he also knew the heated blush which spread to the tips of his fingers.

“Yes. I love you too.” His weight disappeared from the side of the bed, and Viktor heard him pad softly to the door. “Now sleep, Viktor.”

Viktor Nikiforov quietly obliged.

ii.

He was awake when Yuuri returned from practice, having finally brushed his teeth but not dressed in day clothes, and he was sitting on the bed with the curtains still drawn. Makkachin lay with his head on Viktor’s knee. Yuuri did not turn the light on when he entered the room, not smelling of mint toothpaste anymore but tasting sharply of sweat, and when Viktor slung an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders to pull him closer when he kissed him, the back of his neck was slick.

“Mm. Sorry.” Yuuri made halfheartedly as if to pull away, but Viktor did not let him, and his apology ended up whispered against the edge of Viktor’s mouth. “Need to shower.”

Viktor hummed, “Can I come?” and Yuuri laughed. Ran a hand affectionately through Viktor’s hair.

“Later. I’d like to actually shower first, and--” He kissed Viktor’s temples, then the bridge of his nose. “I worry you would be a bit of a distraction. Did you eat?”

Viktor tried to recall. “Mm. No.”

Gentle reproach in his tone when he said, “Vitya.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to _me.”_ Yuuri pulled away, laid a gentle hand atop Makkachin’s head. “How was your day?”

“Slept.”

“Mm. And do you feel better now?”

Viktor shrugged. He was still cold, still drowsy, and the guilt from missing practice--both as Yuuri’s coach and a competing athlete himself--was beginning to creep into his lungs. He shrugged again, and aimed for a smile.

“Oh, Viktor.” Yuuri’s fingers, folded against his cheek. Gratefully, Viktor closed his eyes. “Let me shower. Then I’ll run you a bath.”

“You don't have to--” Viktor began, stumbling over that and the equally pressing sentiment, “You haven't told me how practice went--”

“Give me ten minutes.” Yuuri tapped his cheek. “Then I’ll tell you every single boring detail, I promise.”

Eyes still closed, head tipped gently back and face tilted up, Viktor Nikiforov smiled.

iii.

Newly showered, Yuuri was dressed in one of Viktor’s sweaters. The sleeves were a bit too long and wide and they kept slipping down his forearms and dipping into the bath water. Viktor couldn't have minded any less.

“And Yakov said as long as you stay alive until Russian nats and don’t disappear to Japan again, he doesn't care if you miss one practice out of a hundred. He said he trusts you.”

“He wouldn’t,” Viktor murmured, but pleasantly. “He hasn't trusted me in ten years.”

“Would I lie?” Yuuri’s voice came soft and close to his ear, and his lips brushed the highest part of Viktor’s cheekbone.

“To keep me happy?” Viktor smiled. “Yes.”

“Not about this,” Yuuri said. His tone was earnest. “Never about this.”

Viktor hummed, and he turned his face to the right so his nose bumped Yuuri’s, so his mouth grazed his, and he said, “I know.” He watched Yuuri close his eyes, then reopen them dreamily. “And I love you for it.”

“Is that the only reason you love me?” Yuuri whispered. The question was playful, but Viktor felt compelled to respond to it in seriousness regardless. He opened his mouth to reply, but Yuuri’s lips on his jawline beat him to it. Viktor tipped back his head, and Yuuri’s fingers drifted upward to cradle his face, even as his mouth moved downward to lay its claim to every centimeter of Viktor’s throat. 

“Mm,” Viktor hummed drowsily, instead of whatever he had designed to say before. “What was the question?”

“I forgot,” Yuuri muttered, and he smiled quietly, and his mouth was so wonderfully soft against Viktor’s shoulder it could have driven him to tears. It nearly did--Viktor took one shuddering sigh, and the last of his strength went out from beneath him as he sank, but it was okay because Yuuri had him. Yuuri would always have him.

“I missed you today,” Viktor said, as Yuuri leaned dangerously over the bathtub and braced one palm against the tiled wall so he could reach with his mouth the other side of Viktor’s neck. “Oh. You’re going to fall in, love.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Yuuri sighed in his ear. When his hand did slip suddenly from its place against the wall, Viktor caught him by the shoulders, and Yuuri laughed. “Mm. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Then he repeated softly, “I missed you.”

“I’m here now,” Yuuri reminded him, and it was true. He was.

“I want to be at your nationals,” Viktor said drowsily. He caught Yuuri’s hand as he withdrew back to the edge of the tub, brought Yuuri’s fingers to his mouth. “I wish I could be there.”

There was too much overlap between Japanese and Russian nationals this year. For Viktor to travel so frequently between time zones would be cutting it too close before competing, and Yuuri had other support systems outside his fiancé which could provide a surrogate coach for a few days. In fact, Phichit Chulanont had offered quite eagerly to take on the job.

Yuuri smiled. He didn't say anything one way or another on the subject. Viktor had long since closed his eyes when he heard him whisper, “I know, love.”

“And...and I want…” But he had forgotten what he wanted. He raised his arms drowsily, arched his back slowly and in a way that _ached_ as much as it was wonderful, linked his fingers behind Yuuri’s neck. “Mm.”

Yuuri kissed him again, on the mouth, and the way he did it was as if waking up. Sleepy mouths and slow, gentle hands, and he cradled Viktor’s head carefully so Viktor did not sink thoughtlessly deeper into the tub. He was entirely at Yuuri’s mercy here, as he often--always--was. He loved him so dearly.

When Yuuri did pull away, it was to murmur, “Have to make dinner,” and dreamily Viktor said, “Oh, let me.”

Yuuri laughed, low and good-natured, against his cheek. Viktor overlooked this doubtful aside at his cooking talents. “I suppose you can help,” he said, like he always did when Viktor offered to make the meals. The concession rarely allowed Viktor anywhere near a stove, nor did he venture willingly too close to one. Viktor’s assistance in the making of dinner usually involved Yuuri doing the heavy work, and when Viktor wasn't waltzing around the kitchen and drinking his way through a new bottle of red wine, sometimes he would be entreated to cut a few vegetables.

“I’ll help,” Viktor insisted quietly, and again Yuuri smiled.

iv.

Viktor was perched on the counter in a way he thought utterly charming and Yuuri was wont to find distracting, and he was drinking. Yuuri moved about him quietly, efficiently, but whenever he had the chance Viktor would catch him by the jaw and kiss him softly, and against his mouth Yuuri would smile. On the sixth occasion of this he reproached of Viktor’s quick consumption of wine, “Don't drink that all before dinner,” and plucked the glass from Viktor’s loose fingers to finish it himself. The warm flush across his cheeks, from the wine and from good-natured embarrassment, made Viktor kiss him again.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, and against what was likely his better judgment, Yuuri laughed.

Despite Yuuri’s good intentions, Viktor had already been a bit tipsy before Yuuri confiscated his wine (he had barely eaten today, after all, and he was not as young and alcohol-hardy as he used to be), and he used this uninhibited, drowsy happiness to justify the way he wrapped his legs around Katsuki Yuuri’s waist and pulled him closer. Viktor thought this very clever and also quite sexy of him, though in retrospect it probably looked rather intoxicated and clumsy. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Yuuri stumbled against the counter and sighed, “Viktor,” in that exasperated, lovely way he did. He placed both palms flat against Viktor Nikiforov’s cheeks and complained softly, “I can't reach your face from all the way up there.”

And this was a groundless claim, because after all Viktor had been reaching Yuuri’s face all evening from his place on the counter, but it succeeded in enticing him down from the granite all the same. Yuuri twined his fingers at the nape of Viktor’s neck, and Viktor’s hands _slipped_ \--mostly innocently, barely by accident--a bit farther than the small of his back.

Yuuri allowed him to do so. Yuuri tucked his face into the curvature between Viktor’s neck and his shoulder and whispered, finally, “I missed you today too.”

“Mm,” Viktor mumbled. Yuuri always smelled nice. Like soap and Viktor’s cologne and something which was indescribably, inimitably _Yuuri_ which clung to him even during sleep and practice and sex, and when he was alone Viktor would catch it on the sleeves of his jackets which Yuuri had borrowed to go to the rink or unzipped while Viktor was still wearing them to curl inside or used as pillows to doze on while sitting in the front seat of Viktor’s car. Even details such as these pursued Viktor Nikiforov in his dreams. “I’m here now.”

Yuuri hummed. “Mm. You are,” he murmured. “Thank you for that.” 

After dinner they would walk Viktor’s dog, like they always did together in the evenings. Viktor Nikiforov would still be quite tipsy by this time, and he would confess under the moon, as he often did, that Yuuri was the most beautiful man he had ever met. (Several times, and in several locations, just to ensure he had chosen the optimal spot for such a divulgence.) It would be romantic. The ever blushing Katsuki Yuuri would laugh and mumble caveats and Viktor imagined he would find great pleasure in kissing the silly, beautiful flush of his cheeks.

Viktor looked at Yuuri now and confided to him like it was a shiny new secret, “Oh, I am _so_ in love with you.”

The Yuuri of the present smiled. His face began to turn pink, already, and Viktor cupped his jaw with both his hands and cried delightedly, “You’re blushing! Did you know that you’re blushing?”

“I can feel it, actually, Viktor,” Yuuri mumbled, casting his gaze downward abashedly but keeping the smile. “No need to remind me.”

“It’s cute.” Viktor kissed his nose--in the summer, Yuuri’s face freckled, but this far into winter he had lost his summer color. Viktor couldn’t decide which version of Yuuri he was more in love with, and thus settled on a tie between the two. Summer Yuuri and winter Yuuri. They were both beautiful, both gentle, and both warm. “You’re cute. I’m in love with you.”

They would wait until they were home--after Viktor had cleaned up the mess from dinner and after Yuuri had called his family to make arrangements for their coming to his nationals and after the dog had fallen asleep on Viktor’s side of the sofa--they would wait until then to undress one another.

Viktor would take his time in this endeavor, because it was his favorite part of their nightly ritual and because he liked to savor it. Yuuri would indulge him in this, interrupting the process only to kiss Viktor’s hands with smiling lips. Then they would have slow, sleepy sex in Viktor’s bed, after which Yuuri would press his face to Viktor’s shoulder and murmur, “Feeling better now?”

Quietly, Viktor Nikiforov would nod.

v.

“How expensive is this wine?” Yuuri asked now. He had danced away from Viktor’s touch, was regarding the French label on the bottle with great concentration. Viktor tilted his head and attempted a glimpse too. Neither of them could read French, though Viktor figured he was probably a better hack at it than Yuuri.

“Can’t remember.” He shrugged. “Think it was a gift.”

“Hm.” Yuuri uncorked it and tipped a good portion of the remaining alcohol nonchalantly into the pan on the stovetop. Viktor’s hiss was audible.

“Too expensive to be used for _cooking_ wine, Yuuri--”

“Oh, don’t worry--I’ll buy you another bottle,” Yuuri promised, though he was smiling. Viktor shook his head, rubbed at his eyes.

“No, no, that’s...” That wasn’t what he had meant. He sighed. “That’s not...”

“It’s okay.” Yuuri was before him again. He said, “Don’t be upset, Viktor. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not about the wine,” Viktor muttered. Yuuri’s hands slid upwards against his chest.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know.”

“It’s--” He couldn’t finish. Yuuri linked his fingers against the back of his neck. His expression was tender.

“I understand this, Viktor. I do.” He smiled quietly. “They’re not your first Olympics.”

“They’ll be my last.”

Yuuri carded a hand through his hair. Viktor blinked once, twice, and his lips parted.

“As a competitor, maybe,” Yuuri said. “But where will we be if we only ever think in terms of endings?”

“I might not even qualify--”

“Viktor.” Yuuri rested his thumb on Viktor’s bottom lip. “You know that’s not true. What would they do without you? Can you imagine the public outrage, if Russia didn’t send Viktor Nikiforov to Pyeongchang?”

“I don’t want to go just because of my _name--”_

“You won’t, love.” Yuuri smiled again. “Believe me. Even if Yurio knocks you from the top of the podium--and I find even that hard to believe, since he could barely beat _me_ last season, and he’s burning himself out under that new program of his--even then, there are two spots. And bless Georgi, I love him, but he’s not beating you with a twice-recycled _Bacchanale_ , my dear." 

“That’s so…”

“Calculating?” Yuuri laughed, just barely. “I’m just thinking rationally. It helps to have someone do that for you, sometimes.” He tapped his own right temple. “Own worst enemy, isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“Your English is better than mine.” Viktor took a deep breath, then closed his eyes. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Mm.” Yuuri’s fingers lingered at the angle of his jaw. “You still look like you want to crawl out of your skin, love. Is there anything I can do to help?”

A whisper of a response. _Be here._

“I am here,” Yuuri said. “It’s okay.”

Viktor took several more deep breaths, Yuuri counting them out with a gentle tap to his cheek at the end of each one. At last Viktor smiled a watery smile, and Yuuri’s touch slid down to his shoulders. “It really is awful,” Viktor confessed. “The bacchanale.”

“Drunken sexual abandon is not the most compelling story Georgi Popovich has ever told.”

“Because those matters are best left to you, yes?” At the sudden reservation in Yuuri’s expression, Viktor dipped his head. “A joke.”

Yuuri hummed. His attempt at looking stern was foiled by his involuntary desire to match Viktor’s improving mood. His eyes were bright. “If that’s your professional opinion,” he murmured. “As a choreographer.”

“As a man with eyes,” Viktor added, and Yuuri was blushing again. He shook his head.

“You will not tell Georgi I said that. About the bacchanale.” He tugged resolutely at Viktor’s collar. “He’s a good skater. I respect him.”

“He’d be extremely flattered to know,” Viktor murmured. “I believe he thinks you hate him.”

“Oh no.”

“It’s that face you get when you’re at the rink.” Viktor passed a hand before his own face. “That concentration. It’s a bit terrifying.”

“Oh _no.”_

 “I find it very attractive.”

Yuuri said, “You would,” and his voice was smooth. His smile was suddenly wicked. “Masochist." 

“Terror can be sexy.”

“If you say so.” Yuuri tucked his face affectionately into his shoulder. Viktor remembered _feeling better now?_ and sighed for a new reason.

“Mmm.”

Yuuri said, “And you still have so much tension in your back--you need to let me work that out, love. Why haven’t you seen someone about this?”

“Forgot.” 

“I see.” Yuuri shook his head in gentle disbelief. Viktor hated suddenly for Yuuri to think he had grown careless. This was his livelihood. What would he do if he didn’t have skating? “I’ll start on it tonight. Is that okay?”

A mental image of Viktor facedown in their bed, his head buried in his folded arms, and of Yuuri straddling his bare waist, his cool hands touching touching touching, bringing warmth to his back and shoulders. Viktor said stiltedly, “Oh. Good.”

Yuuri’s laugh was deep, little more than a hum in his chest. “What would you do without me?”

“Eat fewer hot meals. Drink more wine.” Viktor tried to think of further responses, but his thoughts moved drowsily and with single-minded purpose now. “I imagine I’d be having less sex." 

“I imagine,” Yuuri echoed, bringing his right hand upward to twine in Viktor’s hair. The light pressure of his fingers on his skull was soothing. Involuntarily, Viktor swayed, and his head dipped forward with exhaustion before he caught himself. Yuuri heard the soft noise of surprise he made and must have thought him a sleepy, tipsy mess. (Viktor decided he was okay with this. They were engaged, after all. He could afford to let Yuuri see him undone, once in a while.)

“Yuuri,” he murmured, and nothing more. Yuuri tipped up his own face quietly.

“It’s alright, Viktor. I’m here.”

“When are you gonna let me marry you?” Viktor mumbled, and Yuuri replied with something about terms and conditions and moved his fingers in a quietly seductive manner against his jaw. Viktor remembered, and nodded.

_Where will we be if we only ever think in terms of endings?_

Viktor Nikiforov closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this during 2017 japanese nationals and abandoned it for several months because i was overwhelmed by projects at the time and didn't care for this one as much as the others. ahumanlady requested soft familiarity in any setting back in like, mid-january, and i returned briefly to this draft and ultimately did not finish it then either. but now im back from school and have finished my long term fic, so here is what you requested. (my apologies on the extreme lateness.)
> 
> the bacchanale in question is camille saint-saens' samson and delilah bacchanale, one of my favorite saint-saens pieces and also a figure skating warhorse. also, japanese and russian senior nationals both started on december 20th this season, though russian nats ended on the 26th and japanese nats on the 24th.
> 
> Eros the Bittersweet is a series of essays by Anne Carson on the nature and portrayal of erotic love in classical literature and culture. "Sweetbitter" is a term she uses often, first used by the lesbian poet Sappho.
> 
> (i desperately hope the spacing is right here. my usual platform for uploading is out of commission, so im unfamiliar with this formatting. if something is amiss, pls do tell.)
> 
> i can be found here or on my tumblr (the url for that is fortinbra). thanks for reading! xx


End file.
